


service not included

by oceanofchaos



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F, Fluff, Mistaken Identity, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 16:09:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3453521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanofchaos/pseuds/oceanofchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only highlight of working in Starbucks, Allison has discovered, is the 2-3pm shift which Lydia Martin frequents. The whole potentially-not-into-girls-and-quite-possibly-a-sex-worker thing is a little more complicated, but Allison's willing to work this whole (maybe) flirtation out one Grande Hazelnut Latte at a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [candyvan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyvan/gifts).



> for my favourite allydia shipper in the whole wide world <3 <3 <3

Allison’s been totally over working at Starbucks for at least three months now. Or, you know, two years. Whatever. It’s kind of the only job she’s qualified for at the moment, and it does help cover her fees, so. She’s been working, on and off, in different Starbuckses around the world since she was about fifteen, because Starbucks is essentially the modern equivalent of the Roman Army; they’re all laid out the exact fucking same, so that mercenaries like Allison know their way around, regardless of their actual location. Also, they’re taking over the world.

 

The point is this: Allison is twenty-three, a university student at last, and totally over working at Starbucks after the past eight years. She’s over the glowers she gets from people with impossible to spell names, over the kids who ask for cups of hot water like she can’t see they brought teabags with them, the brats who want to pick a fight because she didn’t remember their order, nevermind she had to wake up at, like, four this morning to open. She’s especially over the students who come in every fucking day, order the cheapest form of caffeine, never fucking tip, and hog all their tables with their one empty cup.

 

 _I need a new job,_ she thinks as she froths the milk for Mr. Doubleshot Caramel Macchiato, _Any other fucking job. What if I’m stuck here_ _forever?_

 

She shudders, and tries to work the pattern into latte art that will be inevitably ignored. She thinks about the coursework due this Wednesday, and continues the lunch hour rush on autopilot.

 

She’s majoring in History and minoring in French, which kind of feels like cheating because she’s fluent, but hey, at least she knows she’ll pass it! It’s fun and all, and she’s really enjoying it, but sometimes she wishes she’d picked something vocational just so she’d have an answer when people ask her what she wants to do with her life. _Not work in Starbucks._

 

It’s quarter to three, and Allison’s really nearly off shift, and then she can finally go home and nap! Except, no; she needs to go to the library and see if that book on anti-clericalism and satyriasis in 19th Century France is in yet, and she’ll have to swing by the supermarket on the way home, and–

 

“Hey Ally,” says a soft voice, which accompanies the hand holding twenty dollars which just appeared in her vision.

 

So here’s the thing. Allison may not be totally over the whole barista thing, because, well. Meet Lydia Martin.

 

“I’d like a–” starts Lydia Martin.

 

“Yeah,” smiles Allison painfully, hopelessly obvious, “I know. Grande Hazelnut Latte, coming up.”

 

Lydia’s lips curl in approval, and Allison’s gut curls up with them, and Lydia says “Keep the change,” just like she _always_ does.

 

Lydia Martin is kind of flawless, Allison is pretty sure. Almost, anyway. She started coming to Allison’s Starbucks almost a month ago now, on an every-other-day schedule, She’s absolutely stunning, whip smart, and always beautifully dressed. She orders the same thing every time and always tips, even when she’s paying by card, which is how Allison knows her name. She makes a point to not only treat Allison with respect, but also to dress down anyone who’s even slightly rude to Allison. Lydia’s kind of terrifying for someone so tiny and delicate - Allison would guess she’s, like, around 80 pounds soaking wet, except she always get too distracted by the idea of Lydia Martin _soaking wet_ to be sure.

 

There are two main problems: she doesn’t know if Lydia’s attracted to girls, and she’s pretty confident that Lydia’s a prostitute. There is, of course, nothing wrong with sex work, but it’s kind of quite illegal in this state, and Allison really shouldn’t allow meeting with clients to occur in the cafe.

 

They make small talk while Allison makes the coffee, and she tries her hardest not to sound so fond. It’s pretty much impossible, her dimples always _ache_ after Lydia arrives. They’re sort of delaying around the handover table, but then Lydia checks her watch and retreats to the window table with the squidgy armchairs. Sure enough exactly four minutes later, once Lydia’s redone her lipstick and checked her hair, a greying guy in his mid-forties and a rumpled suit arrives, gives Lydia’s table a surreptitious glance, and comes up to the counter to order.

 

It’s White Chocolate Regular Cappuccino Guy. Allison _hates_ White Chocolate Regular Cappuccino Guy; he’s sleezy, a sense of overconfidence and power which combine badly in Allison’s eyes. That and he’s a bit too handsy with Lydia, likes to loom into her space, despite being in a public place, which could get her in serious trouble. Also he once complimented Allison’s skin, which everyone knows is the kind of compliment _Hannibal_ would give you. Ugh.

 

“Well good afternoon, Allison,” says White Chocolate Regular Cappuccino Guy.

 

“Name and order,” says Allison in a flat tone which belies her fake smile, ignoring the fact she’s asked him the exact same thing at least once a week for almost a month, and they both know she knows he’s called Peter.

 

He parries with a smile equally fake. She makes his stupid coffee, and hopes her bitterness transfers into the drink itself, without having to actually sabotage it, and potentially risk her job. He brings it over to Lydia’s table, and smacks a loud kiss onto her cheek, ignoring how annoyed that makes her look. Allison _hates_ him.

 

At last, Emily arrives for her shift, and Allison’s free to go… do more work. Ugh. She takes off her apron, and throws it and Emily’s head.

 

“Well good _evening_ , Em,” mock-scowls Allison, laughing as Emily stumbles over a traffic related excuse and dons the apron.

 

“Tell Caitlin that coral lipstick suits her!” teases Allison, and Em starts scrubbing furiously at her neck with a tissue. It’s on her cheek, but Allison’ll let her figure that out for herself. She packs her bag, races to leave.

 

She purposefully doesn’t look over to where Lydia and Peter are hunched together conspiratorially.

 

\---

 

She’s arranged her shifts so she doesn’t have work for the next two days, so she can finally get this stupid essay over and done with. It’s ended up more about the inherent sexism and double standard encouraged by the media in 19th Century France than anticlericalism, but fuck it. Allison’s been writing increasingly feminist essays, regardless of the actual relevance to the topic, and at this point she’s just trying to get her tutor to work out a way to tell her to knock it off without sounding sexist; watching him hedge around it is quickly becoming a new hobby.

 

She finishes it almost five hours before the absolute final deadline, and is thus one of the first people to hand it in. Had to pull an all-nighter to do it, but she can handle it. She’s currently in that part past tiredness, where your body literally tingles with excess energy. The real question is, gym or pool? And who can she sucker into going with her?

 

Half an hour later, Allison waits at the local swimming pool for Derek to show up. Derek’s one of her best friends, even if she initially met him through Scott McCall, her platonic soulmate and her other best friend’s boyfriend. Scott kind of adopted Derek into some weird brother-from-another-mother set up, and Allison’s never really sure who’s supposed to be the big brother, for all that Derek’s a couple of years older. Allison adores him. They’re both multilingual, pansexual, terrible cooks, hot-headed and determined to hold grudges. Allison always jokes that they’re so similar it’s lucky they became friends, or they’d have to be sworn enemies. Derek normally pretends to be insulted to be compared to her, and pulls her in for a sidehug about three minutes later.

 

He jogs up five minutes late, obviously frustrated, and carefully ignoring Allison’s pointedly tapping foot.

 

“Hey,” he greets tersely, “Sorry. I had to give Cora and Malia a lift, and then parking ohmy _god_.”

 

“Right? You’d have to be a total idiot to own a car in this city,” mocks Allison, waving off another apology and going for a hug, which Derek instantly reciprocates. “It’s been ages, Derek,” she whines, “I haven’t seen you in over a week!”

 

“Whose fault is that?” he says, but she can tell from his voice that he’s smiling at her. It’s confirmed when he pulls her back to say, “Missed you too.”

 

Between school and work, she hasn’t had much time for hanging out, for this kind of camaraderie which she has clearly been missing. She clearly needs to make more time for her friends.

 

“Shall we swim?” asks Derek, carrying both their holdalls on one arm, and offering her the other one.

 

“Ugh, dork,” laughs Allison, taking his arm. They go in.

 

\---

 

Wide awake, freshly chlorinated, and the loser of three consecutive races, Derek suggests they head to Jamba Juice to catch up.

 

“I just feel like this job is taking over my life, y’know?” whines Allison, tensing up just thinking about it, “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a Starbucks.”

 

“Oh, Ally, you won’t,” soothes Derek. He pauses, flashes her a grin, “I hear Jamba Juice is hiring.”

 

Laughing, she shoves at his shoulder, but it does nothing to stop him from smiling into his juice.

 

“At least I do _have_ a job,” she points out, smiling smugly when Derek scrunches his face at her.

 

“Okay, _fine_. No more talking shop. How are job-adjacent questions?” he asks, and she pauses, nods permission. “Any developments on Ms. Hazelnut Latte?”

 

“Ugh,” sighs Allison, “It’s embarrassing how doomed I am, okay? Like, I still have no idea if she’s even into girls, let alone if she’s into me. She’s unfailingly polite and nice, fine, but polite doesn’t actually equate to ‘I want to kiss you all over, and see if you’re still that well put together once you’ve spent a week in my bed’, so. Also, I’m pretty sure she’s a prostitute, did I tell you?”

 

“What. What?? No, no you didn’t tell me!”

 

“So,” says Allison, well aware that her voice is going all mournful and longing, “She always has beautiful clothes, and tips way more than any student could ever afford, like twenties every time,” Allison pauses to drink more smoothie, and fortify herself against Derek’s unimpressed face, “ _And_ she only really comes in to meet up with these like rich, old men, who are always well-dressed and nervous. And they always talk all quietly in the corner, and they never arrive at the same time, but they always leave together, and she always gets into their cars.” Derek’s started to look a little closer to convinced, but he’s still leaning towards thoughtful as opposed to accepting, so she goes for her ace, “ _AND_ she has regulars. One of whom is well dressed, albeit stressed, greying, sleezy, and called Peter.”

 

“Uncle Peter?” yelps Derek, and Allison nods. “Well, shit. Yeah, okay, she’s almost certainly a prostitute.”

 

\---

 

Allison's easing back in with a morning shift, helping Danielle with the morning rush. She didn't even have to open, because Danielle had it covered, so she got to rock up at 7.30 which means she's practically had a lie in. For a uni student in her twenties, Allison gets distressingly few lie ins.

 

"Finally," drawls Danielle, as Allison arrives two minutes early, "Don't just disappear for days on end without telling your girlfriend, Allison, uncool."

 

"Um," says Allison, tying up first her apron, then her hair, "What? I'm tragically single, remember?" It's something she bonds about with Heather, Danielle's best friend. (Although Danielle is also single, it's definitely not tragic: she had a minimum of five desperate admirers at any given moment, and she bestows them with her favours and attention on a seemingly random system. Pretty much the only thing she'll say about it, when asked, is "It's good to be queen." They've stopped asking.)

 

"Only because you're pussyshit," says Danielle matter of factly, and gestures towards the window table.

 

Allison does a double take.

 

Lydia Martin, who only ever comes in the afternoons, and only ever comes as a neutral meeting ground, is curled around a steaming mug. She's slouching, and although her hair and makeup are as perfect as ever, she barely looks awake. As Allison stares, Lydia starts a series of heavy, confused blinks, slowly straightening up as she goes. Taking a long draught of coffee, she blinks again, even harder.

 

"Um," says Allison.

 

"Christ," mutters Danielle, "Go to her! Before the rush hour starts, thanks."

 

"Right," agrees Allison and stumbles out from behind the counter, "What do I say?"

 

There's a pause, as Danielle levels her with a steady look.

 

"That was a joke, right?"

 

"Um."

 

" _Go_."

 

Allison goes.

 

Lydia has started to sink back into her seat, curling up over the mug again. It's kind of fascinating to watch; she straightens up on her inhales, curls back on her exhales, and barely seems to be conscious of it. She's also wearing headphones.

 

Allison slides in across from her, and delights in how long it takes Lydia to notice her presence. She knows that Lydia isn't perfect, is excruciatingly aware that she's human and flawed, but it's sort of refreshing to see a reminder. She may not be perfect, but she takes care in projecting perfection. Even now, arguably mostly asleep, she isn't even mussed.

 

On the third inhale, Lydia startles slightly, blinks three times in quick succession. She gets her phone out on the table to pause it, and Allison realises she's been listening to a live news stream. Of course. God forbid she takes five minutes to relax and wake up properly.

 

"Good morning," says Allison, voice hushed and embarrassingly reverent.

 

"Hey," says Lydia, she's obviously fighting a yawn. "You've been... Not here."

 

"Yes," agrees Allison bemusedly, because this is a level of tired which is practically drunk, and she can't help wondering if these are things Lydia would say otherwise. "I had work to do."

 

"Isn't this work?"

 

"Fine, I had coursework to do. Had to take some days off."

 

"Ah," says Lydia, and looks determinedly at her half empty cup.

 

"May I ask why you wanted to know?" Asks Allison, gingerly.

 

"You may," smirks Lydia, and who knew she could be such a shit?

 

Allison feels her eyes narrow almost subconsciously, tilts her chin and just _knows_ she's doing what Kira's deemed her ‘imminent bar brawl’ face. Derek calls it her 'I'm gonna turn you into a fur coat' face. It's not really a face she should be wielding on cute, mainly asleep girls.

 

Lydia looks faintly amused, and more awake than she's managed so far. She raises a delicate eyebrow, and Allison is so so screwed.

 

"I came in for coffee, and you weren't here. When I asked, all your coworkers made ominously nonspecific statements, and wouldn't even answer if you were okay. I was maybe a little worried," admits Lydia, and Allison knew her friends were dicks but goddamn.

 

"To be fair," she tries, "there was a lot of coursework. No one's okay when there's lots of coursework involved."

 

Lydia concedes with a nod, mouth twisting with a small smile. It’s exceedingly cute, and nothing like the bitchy smirks Allison’s seen directed at Peter and other clients.

 

“Didn’t even know you woke up this early,” she teases, mostly to make conversation.

 

“I’m not sure this counts as awake,” says Lydia wryly, and Allison concedes the point. She looks so warm in the mornings, all heavy gaze and bright eyes, and hair mussed so lightly it seems to limn her in gold. She’s renaissance art, and the things Allison would give up to see her like this every morning.

 

“I take it your coursework’s all done now?” asks Lydia, peering into her cup in an overly nonchalant manner. It’s the sort of thing which may have worked if she hadn’t, you know, harassed Lydia’s coworkers and come in at the ungodly opening hour. As it is, Allison’s trying to read her tells, she’d like to be able to tell when Lydia looks studied, god, she’d like to be able to tell everything about her.

 

She’s so so screwed.

 

“Yeah, handed it in the other morning,” says Allison, and her heart is kind of hurting a little. This can barely count as a conversation, she feels like there should be back lighting, and violins, and fucking cherry blossoms, but instead they’re sitting in a Starbucks before the morning rush, knees brushing lightly under the table, and her heart hurts.

 

“Good,” smiles Lydia into her cup, and the morning light drifts around her, and Allison wishes she still painted just so she could capture this moment.

 

They sit in silence for a minute or two, peaceful and calm and quiet. Allison’s trying not to think about what it would be like to wake up with Lydia every morning, trying not to think about the newscast still paused on the table between them, this weird heavy hush that’s surrounded them. Like they’re the only ones awake in the world.

 

“ _Allison_! Goddamn, girl, that’s the third time!” snaps Danielle, and it’s comforting to see Lydia flinch just as hard as she is. There’s a queue of eight people, and Allison is absolutely never going to be allowed to live this down.

 

\---

 

_i hear youre pining ;)_

 

This is a bad sign on multiple levels, not least of which because Kira’s normally relatively oblivious to the day-to-day drama. Also, more critically, because the second she becomes aware, she teases relentlessly and inevitably gets overinvolved. (No one is ever allowed to bring up the Reyes Incident of last May ever again, but suffice it to say, Kira watched too many trashy movies at a formative age.)

 

_all lies, yukimura. i wouldn’t even know how._

 

One day Allison will work out how exactly it is that she’s worse at lying over whatsapp than in person, but apparently that won’t be today.

 

_haaaaaaaa :D dinner at mine pick me up at 7.30ish_

 

_where even are you?_

_lol. where do u think?_

 

\---

 

Kira Yukimura, Allison’s other best friend, the True Love of Allison’s platonic soulmate, and 3rd year undergraduate, basically lives in the library these days. Currently, however, she’s bounding over to Allison. They hug tightly, uncaring of how they block the sidewalk for the other pedestrians.

 

“It’s been weirdly long,” says Allison into Kira’s hair, “Where have you even been?”

 

“‘Become an engineer’ they said, ‘It’ll be fun’ they said,” laughs Kira, finally releasing Allison so that they can make their way to the nearest subway station.

 

“Are you having fun?” asks Allison, who has heard this whole speech approximately fifty times, and is already looking forward to hearing it again. She can’t stop grinning, it’s sort of embarrassing but it’s also been nearly a week since they got to see each other in person, instead of just skype, and that’s really far too long.

 

Kira looks up gleefully, as she starts to braid her hair in two long plaits, knowing her cues just as well as Allison. “Well, yes, _but_.”

 

\---

 

They sit in the kitchen, Allison sprawled across a chair and Kira perched on the counter, drinking wine from mugs. Kira’s theoretically checking on the rice steamer, but she’s gotten plenty distracted by telling stories of her awful group for her group presentation.

 

“Like, it’s a bridge project, we _have_ to do a bridge, that’s literally in the name and yet–”

 

Malia’s entered the room, followed by Derek. This is relatively unsurprising, as Malia is one of Kira’s housemates, and uses her vague familial tie to Derek to get him to drive her everywhere, but Allison’s not tipsy enough not to suspect who tipped Kira off as to her maybe-situation with Lydia.

 

“Sup,” says Malia, going straight for the fridge.

 

“Hey Malia, hey _Judas_ ,” says Allison, with a mock scowl to boot.

 

“Aaaaand I’m out.” Malia balances about three packets of deli meats, and a smoothie carton in her arms and kicks the fridge shut, striding towards her room. “Later, nerds.”

 

Kira blows a kiss in her direction, before turning to face Allison. Derek’s already gone over to check on the chilli.

 

“Did I not mention Derek was coming to dinner too?” asks Kira in that voice that’s too sweet to actually be innocent. She bats her eyes slowly, to really confirm that she’s up to something.

 

“This isn’t an intervention, right?” checks Allison, and feels relieved when they both give her identical 'you are an actual crazy paranoid person' looks, which probably supports their point. Still, she’s warm and happy, so she pours Derek a glass. “A homecooked meal and my two favourite people, I am the luckiest person in the world!”

 

“Well,” says Kira coyly, “Two of your favourite people. I hear we’re being joined in the rankings by a cute redhead?”

  
Allison fake-laughs, finishes her glass, and hopes that’s the last of Lydia-related talk for the night.


	2. Chapter 2

That is nowhere near the last of Lydia-related talk for the night. 

 

Also, not wholly unrelated, Allison’s considering trading in her best friends for some newer models. Ones which talk back less. And don’t make her the butt of every other joke.

 

They’ve relocated to the living room, chilli and rice demolished, and are squidged together on the single sofa with The Office on in the background. Kelly and Ryan are onscreen, which is a relief because if the Jim/Pam plotline gets even jokingly referenced to Allison’s secret and probably unrequited crush on a customer again, she’s going to scream. Or change the password to her dad’s Netflix, so all her friends have to find someone else to mooch off. Whichever. 

 

“Number One:,” says Kelly Kapoor, “How dare you?!”

 

“Is it bad that I kind of hope they get together? Even though it’s a really unhealthy relationship?” asks Kira, leaning her head on Allison’s shoulder.

 

“Not bad,” says Allison, “But kind of weird. You do get that they have basically the exact opposite relationship of you and Scott?”

 

Kira sighs a little. “I just want them to be happy.”

 

“There it is,” mutters Derek with a smirk.

 

“Too good, too pure,” agrees Allison, smiling at him.

 

“Why are we mocking me?” asks Kira, and Allison’s known her for ever, and knows exactly where that tone is going. Good natured as it is, that tone is the sound of upcoming detentions, and being banned from the local cinema for a month, and getting her car keys confiscated when she was a kid. “This isn’t a Mock Kira Dinner,” she says, and Allison knows the glint in her eyes far too well. “This night is special. This night is about Allison’s maybe-a-prostitute True Love.”

 

Allison groans.

 

“Seriously, she’s red-headed and pretty, that’s all I know about her. You could stand to talk about her a bit more.”

 

“She drinks hazelnut lattes,” says Derek, “We also know that.” He also turns down the volume on the tv, because he is the worst kind of enabler.

 

Allison leans her head back against the sofa. The ceiling is entirely unremarkable, but has the added bonus of not being either of the two terrible dorks who have been bothering her about this _all evening_. 

 

“We could bother Derek about his love life? We never bother Derek about his love life,” says Allison, but she knows it’s futile.

 

“Tell you what,” says Derek with fake sympathy, “If you ever have a break up that goes even half as badly as any of my last three relationships, we’ll stop bothering you about your love life.”

 

“Good luck with that,” says Kira dryly, and yeah, okay, point. Derek’s had kind of the worst luck. It’d be impressive if it wasn’t deeply worrying, and make Allison want to wrap a blanket around him and give him hot chocolate every time she thinks about it too much. 

 

“I’m not telling you her name,” declares Allison, because it’s good to lay out ground rules, especially after the Reyes Incident which never happened.

 

“That’s fair,” says Derek immediately, which means he’s definitely also thinking about the incident in question.

 

They both swivel to look at Kira.

 

“Ugh, yeah, fine, whatever.” She’s really not a very convincing pouter.

 

“Okay,” says Allison, cheeks warm with wine, and definitely nothing else. “So remember how I had coursework due earlier this week?”

 

——

 

Allison’s back on shift, and also on what has got to be her fourth cup of coffee today? Fifth? It’s been that kind of day. It’s genuinely weird how many colonialists are at her university, and how many of them seem to be studying history. And by weird, she of course means deeply alarming.

 

_lovergirl in yet?_

 

Kira has been texting variations along those lines every few minutes for an hour, and Emily has started laughing whenever Allison scowls at her phone.

 

_don’t you have class or w/e?_

 

_this is literally the most useless lab in the history of time. save me._

 

There’s obviously no real way to salvage her remaining workshift and/or dignity, other than sending Kira dancing lady emojis until she just leaves Allison alone. It may have been nice to discuss Lydia the other night, but as running jokes go, it 100% sucks.

 

“Hey,” says Emily, as Allison startles guiltily from her phone. “I’ve got to grab some syrups from the back, watch the till, okay?” She gives a quicksilver grin and disappears instantly.

 

“Sure,” Allison calls after her, and then looks up from the counter. Lydia’s just walked in. It explains rather more than it doesn’t.

 

It honestly shouldn’t be weird, because it’s not like Allison didn’t know she was into Lydia before now. It’s not like she’s just figured out how she feels and is blown away, or anything. It’s just. She’s always sort of blown away. It probably should have faded by now, at least a little, and yet here they are. Lydia’s still a vision of beauty, and she’s still sweet, and polite, and warm. And Allison is still slightly bedraggled, and a bit coffee-stained, and it’s all just a bit depressing. Lydia Martin looks like she could inspire a masterpiece, or a war. Whichever she wanted. Allison, by contrast, smells of coffee grounds, and spilt almond milk on herself earlier, after a customer yelled at her for using soy milk in their cappuccino.

 

“Hey Ally,” says Lydia, and Allison thinks about how she might not even be single. It’s not like Allison’s facebook stalked her, because it would make things too real and creepy, and it’s hardly like she’d bring a significant other to a client meeting.

 

“I’m literally already making it,” she says with a smile, to head off Lydia’s order. “It’s not like I don’t know what it is.”

 

“Are you calling me predictable?” asks Lydia, and it’s amused in a wry kind of way. Wry looks good on her.

 

“I was more calling you _really_ predictable,” teases Allison, “But, you know, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

 

They linger over the handover table, and when Lydia asks about her day, Allison finds herself complaining about the imperialist in her seminars. She does a fairly scathing impression, and then feels inordinately proud at Lydia’s grin. Lydia smiles quite a lot, big and bright and fake at her meetings, and small and soft and sweet as Allison hands her latte over. She smiles perfect and mean when she’s about to cut into other customer for being rude to Allison, and sarcastic and teasing about half the time. She rarely seems to smile like this, though, all curling and warm, delightedly amused. 

 

There’s a chance Allison has spent more time thinking about this than is strictly necessary.

 

Whatever. 

 

“That’s definitely a benefit of what I do,” says Lydia, “People’s terrible opinions on colonialism just don’t really come up.”

It’s definitely the first time they’ve ever really acknowledged that they both know what Lydia does, and instead of feeling awkward, like she always kind of assumed she would, Allison feels sort of heartened. They can’t talk about it properly, but it’s kind of great to know that Lydia trusts her enough to talk about it casually. Like, she doesn’t have a reference point for this kind of conversation, but probably you are not supposed to be quietly flattered and kind of heartened when your crush obliquely mentions their not-strictly-legal day job. At some point she should probably ask Derek’s law student friend, Boyd, to find out if she’s technically an accomplice to a crime. In the meantime, she’s going to try to make Lydia feel comfortable enough to talk to about anything she wants.

 

“Mmmm, I would have guessed sexism would be a more relevant topic,” she offers, and Lydia barks out a laugh.

 

“Well, yeah. That’s kind of the crux of the whole thing. I mean, don’t get me wrong, racism is obviously a huge issue in my field, but thoughts on imperialism specifically tend not to come up that often.”

 

“Really? Weird, imperialism is, like, my go-to conversation starter,” Allison hands over the coffee as she talks, “What do you even talk about?”

 

Lydia opens her mouth to respond, but the door chimes as someone walks in, and when they look up it’s White Chocolate Regular Cappuccino Guy. He takes them in, as they lean towards each other over the handover table. 

 

“I should go,” says Lydia, kind of quiet, and then she’s over at her usual table.

 

Peter Hale walks up to the till, and Allison doesn’t like how smug he looks. Not that she ever does, but well. She likes it even less than normal. 

 

“Hello, Allison,” greets Peter.

 

“Name and order.”

 

——

 

“That’s an awesome story,” says Scott earnestly, “I hope it works out well. What do you want to do about it?”

 

“Who said anything about _doing_ anything?” asks Allison, only half joking.

 

Scott levels his gaze at her, seemingly to gauge her response, but maybe just to literally read her heart and soul. That feels like the sort of thing Scott can probably do. 

 

“Fair, and I’ll support you no matter what, but you do know that you actively want to do something about it, right?”

 

“…Yeah, yeah I know.”

 

Scott is definitely and definitively Allison’s soulmate. They’ve all agreed this, it’s just a fact of life. The second they met, they just _clicked_ , and for all that his best friend is Stiles, and hers are Derek and Kira, she always knows Scott will have her back. And vice versa, of course.

 

It’s not just that they have the same taste in films, although they do and it’s really helpful when everyone else wants to go see the latest space drama and they can just curl up together and watch something they’ll actually enjoy. It’s not even that they never run out of conversation, and they certainly don’t agree on everything. It’s just. Karma, or something. Kismet. Fate. What the fuck ever. Scott McCall is the purest and sweetest human being she has ever met, and the perfect boyfriend for Kira, and Allison’s Platonic Soulmate. It’s always awkward when she tries to explain it to a new friend or partner, because they all seem to think she’s in love with her best friend’s boyfriend, but it’s something so much sweeter and deeper than that.

 

Also, he’s the only one of her friends who will just make her mint tea and let her talk about her crushes and not mock her relentlessly.

 

It’s kind of the main reason she’s in his living room right now, tucked up cross-legged on the armchair, as he lounges on his couch. They hooked up his tablet to the tv, and subsequently ignored the Netflix homescreen to talk instead. Scott’s kind of the biggest romantic she knows, by like, a lot. If anyone will just give her well-intentioned support in her dumb crush, and encourage her to actually just spine up and ask Lydia out (with minimum mockery), it’s Scott.

 

“You should make some kind of grand gesture,” poses Scott thoughtfully, “To, like, show you really know her or something. And that you’d be a good girlfriend.”

 

Scott also watched too many romcoms at a formative age.

 

“I don’t know, grand gestures can be kind of creepy and pressuring, you know?” muses Allison.

 

“I’m not saying propose in a public place, god,” says Scott exasperatedly, “That’s such a dick move. Just like, this is gonna sound crazy, I know, but like. Try asking her out? Just ask. That’s kind of the grandest gesture you can do anyway, saying you like someone and you want to spend time with each other.”

 

“Ughhhhhh.” The cushion she throws nails him in the face, but he just laughs. “You and Kira deserve each other.”

 

“Thanks!”

 

Still, it’s hitting the point where she thinks more about Lydia than she does about work. Probably she should just work out if there’s any chance Lydia’s interested, so that she can just get the hell over it, get a haircut, and get back to her life. 

 

Feelings are literally the worst.

 

——

 

Allison’s out shopping, because she is somehow down to spaghetti, a can of tomatoes, and tinned tuna in her cupboards. Fresh food normally goes quickly, and that’s fine, whatever, there’s an open market nearby on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and she’s always been fine to pop by that before the crowds, because she’s always up anyway because Starbucks has wrecked her sleeping pattern. Dry food, however, she forgot you could even run out of. She hasn’t been shopping for dry food in like, two months, maybe more.

 

Mostly, she’s just remembering that supermarkets are stupidly expensive. Looking at the fruit and vegetable section literally pains her, because everything is at least triple the price and half the size of the market produce. This is coming from someone actually earning a decent wage, so she can’t bear to think about other students shopping here. The mark up is outrageous. 

 

That said, they have strawberries, even though it’s not the right season.

 

She’s debating whether to put the berries back for the third time, when she sees Lydia Martin in the dairy section.

 

It would be odd to just go over and say hi, probably. Also kind of presumptuous. Like, Lydia may be Allison’s favourite customer, but Allison’s just her barista. They’re friendly, sure, and obviously Lydia cares about her on some level, or she wouldn’t have been worried by her absence. Maybe she’s Lydia’s favourite barista. 

 

None of this necessarily means that Lydia will be able to place her now that she’s not in uniform. Or that they’re actually friends. Or that it wouldn’t just be a bit weird to go over and say hi. 

 

She leaves the strawberries in her basket, and makes her way to the dry foods aisle instead.

 

She’s debating between red and green lentils when she gets a tap on the shoulder. She turns, and there’s Lydia, smiling up at her, mouthing hello. Allison instantly fumbles to pause her phone, and take out her headphones.

 

“Hey,” she says, and hopefully it doesn’t sound too obviously pleased.

 

“Hi, fancy seeing you here,” says Lydia, “I think this is actually the first time I’ve seen you outside of Starbucks?”

 

“Yeah, it is,” replies Allison, and then resists wincing about how quickly she responded. “So.” It’s a lot easier to talk when Lydia is mostly asleep and off her game, or separated by a counter. This close, and with all her self-possession, Lydia is an overwhelming force. She smells like jasmine blossoms, and she looks stupidly good for shopping in the local supermarket. Her lip gloss is incredibly shiny. 

 

“So,” she echoes, amused, “Dry food aisle, huh?”

 

“Yeah, I’m out of dry food, which is like, crucial. Basically all my recipes have some dry staple.”

 

“Like lentils?”

 

“Well, no, not lentils. But lentils feel like something I should be able to cook, you know? So I figure I can pick some up and work out what to do with them later.” She’s maybe rambling a little, but Lydia looks encouraging, and teases her about googling something as simple as boiling vegetables.

 

Lydia walks around the whole shop with her, and they have an easy conversation about food, and how expensive everything seems to be. IT spirals quickly into a conversation about politics, and soon they’re slamming their senator, and trading anecdotes about sexist douchebags. Lydia brings up biphobia, and her experiences as a bi girl, so Allison tells her about all her worst pansexual anecdotes. She’s definitely not wondering if Lydia brought sexuality up to find out if they were compatible. They’re just hanging out. This is chill.

 

“Oh, Ally, please tell me no one has actually thought you meant kitchenware.”

 

“No _one_ , sure, but like, maybe three different people now?”

 

“Wow, are people idiots,” laughs Lydia, and she’s fucking radiant. They’re in the frozen foods aisle now, and Lydia looks like iconography, like a painting by the grand masters. It’s not that she’s perfect; she has a hole in the shoulder of her top that she hasn’t noticed, and pencil smeared all down the side of one hand, and hair is starting to whisp out of the plaited crown that it was woven up in. But she’s warm, smiling, and _here_. She sought out Allison, and she’s been trying her best to get Allison to laugh outright with whipsmart criticisms, and she had to ask Allison to help her get yoghurt because she’s not wearing heels today. She’s fun, and they get on so well, and honestly Allison just wants to spend more time with her. 

 

When they check out, they linger slightly on the sidewalk, but Allison’s bags are heavy with pulses and pastas and rice, and they’re going opposite ways. Still, she ends up smiling all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday to my favourite twenty year old in the world <3 also this will actually be finished within a week's time i am like 99.89% confident

**Author's Note:**

> there's more written up, but it's not quite finished yet, so bear with me and let me know what you think so far. 
> 
> on tumblr at islandoforder.tumblr.com and actually meaning to check it more often i promise


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